I knew I needed you because the demons inside were tormenting me daily.

The demons knew of nothing but inflicting pain.

They wanted silence as much as I did.

As much as I do.

But no one and nothing could SILENCE them.

My demons were waiting for you as eagerly as me.

For it is the love in your eyes.

That silenced them.

Even though I know not you or that love.

You are a mystery to me.

Lost in the translation of centuries of separation.

For a brief moment I search you in the skies above.

The sky full of stars tell me that you are waiting as anxiously as me.

The Moon shapeshifts.

I see you smiling.

That smile absolutely melts me.

Your stare evokes such deep feelings of sexual desire and longing,

So deep within my being,

That it leaves me breathless.

Everything is silenced in sweet surrender.

We never met, but I saw it in your eyes.

No I see it in your eyes, even now.

The love you feel, your deep desire for me.

Your desire which is as deep as the waters of the seas.

I wait for the day we will meet.

For that look in your eyes which silenced my demons.

I gave you my truth in so many words.

But you spoke nothing.

You remained silent because the look in your eyes said everything.

I know how much you pray to hold me.

Even though you do not know me.

Even though you have never met me.

But you have felt me deeper and stronger than anybody.

Your desire burns loud and stark.

I do not want to lead you on,

But there is not much left for us here.

There are pangs of sadness and grief.

At our separation.

The demons though have never spoken again.

Since I stared at you in the eyes.

Through the simulation of space and time.

The demons wait too.

They wait eagerly for your arrival.

For one day you will really be in front of me.

And I will wait to hear your speak.

What will you sound like?

What will you speak of?

Our path is difficult, it is raw, it is painful.

I know you will not run away with this pain.

Even if we have never met, you know it is your job to silence my demons.

Pisces season is almost here and we are all about to soak into some dreamy love vibes. Pisces is my 7th house of relationships and my Moon is here on the 11th degree, so here is an offering for you. I have been looking for you forever my Beloved…come to me now…

There are love stories and then there are LOVE STORIES. You have heard of Romeo and Juliet right? Two young lovers, star-crossed, die because of unwarranted hate between their families.

But today, I will tell you about a love story that is way more spiritual and revolutionary than Romeo and Juliet. In fact, it is one that has touched such a raw nerve in my heart that I strongly believe I have experienced this first-hand in some way.

The love story that I describe is not of two adolescents, but of two extremely spiritually developed people. They were twinflames here to raise the frequency of the people. But again, their love was destroyed by pure xenophobia, bigotry, racism and hate. This is a love story seldom told and it is now time for people from all over to see the beauty of this union where even the devastating tragedy that followed could not dim or lesson the love involved in any way.

He was born in Portugal in 1786 and came to Bengal with his father who was a merchant. Now before I delve into the story of this young Portuguese musician(he must have been into music because you do not start composing such tunes and sonnets if you were not into it in some way), let me expose the story of my beloved country circa 1800.

India was the most coveted country that the European powers craved to dominate. The Spanish, the English, the French, the Dutch, the Danes and the Portuguese were all vying for power in respective states. We know how the English managed to drive every one away and pillage, plunder and rape India for over 200 years. That is another story…

Let me set the scene for you. Hensman Anthony, a young lad, came with his father, a Portuguese merchant to trade in the port city of Chandannagar which was called Farashdanga. The Portuguese were on their last legs as they were getting hardcore competition from the Dutch and the French. Eventually the Dutch lost the plot to the French by 1825. The French managed to hold onto India till about the very end, but the British were definitely the undisputed rulers of the subcontinent.

So this young Portuguese lad is anyway on hostile territory where his people and country are on their last legs. He is no powerful English Officer, he is just the son of some Portuguese trader. There is competition and aggression from the other Europeans and from such a turbulent historical period came one of the greatest Shakta tantrics who wrote and sang some of the most moving hymns to the Goddess Kali/Durga.

How is this possible? How did a Portuguese lad learn Bengali? Not in the rudimentary level, but good enough to compose complex and intense poems which he performed in kavigans. Kavigans were literally poetry face off. Two poets would go head-to-head and spout their philosophy and tunes. The crowd would decide who was the more woke guy and they felicitated him.

This tradition of bard-face-offs have been discovered in most societies. It is not a product of Comedy Central. lol. Firstly, Anthony’s father was just a merchant, well to do, maybe…but then again, just a merchant and he must have wanted the young man to follow in his footsteps, not become some freaky bard who sang in Bengali. Like seriously???

But Anthony was more interested to escape into the heart of pastoral Bengal where he would play his lute and listen to the local poets sing passionately to invoke the Goddess.

Something snaps in his brain as he pulls a chillum. He hears the lingering words of the poet Ramprasad’s Shyamasangeet and it tugged at his heart in ways he could not understand. He would spend much of his time with the poets and other yogis he discovered on his travels. He begins to meditate and do sadhana.

Anthony also begins to learn Bengali, a language he falls in love with. Now let me mention here, that Anthony’s Bengali had to be really as good as any literate Bengali poet’s, otherwise he would never be allowed or able to compete, let alone win a kavigan.

Here was a man who learnt a foreign language to the expertise of the local intellectuals. Not only that, he began to compete with them, finally wining his bout most of the times, even with the most famous poet Bholamoira.

Bengali’s are extremely picky about their language and they are never happy with a foreigner being better at it than most of them. Kinda like the French. No one can speak French better than a Frenchman. But when the kundalini awakens, all knowledge becomes available.

Anthony had lived countless lifetimes in the heart of pastoral Bengal and he knew everything about it. The Bengali Brahmins ridiculed him for dressing like them, made fun of his devotion to Kali, teased him about Jesus Christ and the Church, to which he responded by saying, There is no difference in Christ and Kali my brothers…

Hello! Wtf do you say to a man like that? How does a European get here? This is not easy let me remind you. I for one know a woman from London who has lived in Bombay for over thirty years and she can barely say five words of Hindi.

And this is not like learning the language in a University and taking exams, then returning to your country and publishing books from there. Ah what a great Orientalist! Nope. This is no internet certification that now you are a certified Bengali poet.

This was raw, this was life, this was reality. He not only stayed and worked in Bengal, but he excelled at what he did in a foreign country he chose to call home. He lived in Bengal, amidst the Bengali’s and composed some of the most touching Shakta poetry they had ever heard!

And Bengali Brahmins were a closed, snobbish, gated society who considered Europeans mlecchas or untouchables. They would not even let Anthony drink water in their houses. My peeps, this is the situation in which this young man not only awakened his kundalini, but also gave us one of the greatest spiritual love stories to treasure.

I learnt of Firingi Kalibari when I was a child. My grandmother told me and I remember how enchanted I was to listen about a Portuguese man compose these sonnets and poems in Bnegali to the Goddess Kali. It always moved me to tears.

It was much later that I discovered the true greatness of this man. Now back to a history lesson and it is pretty macabre.

In Bengal, we practised some deadly misogynistic rituals….let Wikipedia dose you up.

Sati or suttee is an obsolete funeral custom where a widow immolates herself on her husband’s pyre or commits suicide in another fashion shortly after her husband’s death..~WIKI

My peeps, in less than 1 percent cases, did the woman actually want to commit suicide, but she was forced. By societal constructs, by tradition, by women like her mothers and sisters, enablers of patriarchy themselves. It was coercion. Nothing else.

Sati was ultimately abolished because of Brahmin reformers like RAJA RAMMOHAN ROY, bless his soul as it is his birthday today. Do you see how society has been burning women in different cultures, under different pretences since time immemorial!

Why did Sati even exist you ask? Because these Brahmin women could not find husbands. They were only allowed to marry a Kulin Brahmin of Bengali origin. So me love, because of my surname Mukerji, 300 years ago, I might have been burnt on my dead husband’s pyre. Yes, I am born in a Brahmin family and this is what they have been doing to my mothers, sisters, aunts and grandmothers.

Most of these women were forced to marry a single Brahmin patriarch, because there were no Brahmin men available. Bengali Brahmin aristocratic women were not allowed to even gaze upon a Brahmin, say from UP or Bihar. Forget a European.

My grandmother tells me how some English officers would come to meet her father. The women were never allowed to even glance at a European man. They lived in a different segment of the house anyway called ANDARMAHAL. She told me that there was an Englishman called Robert who really liked her. I think he sent her a letter through her maidservant and of course, all hell broke loose.

Not that my grandmother would have even reciprocated. You see, for them European men were strange creatures whom they did not consider as mates. It was literally that simple.

I am harping on the time-frame so you get a good understanding of how dangerous it was for Anthony to fall in love with a Bengali widow during such turbulent times. This is way more dangerous than the Romeo Juliet saga.

Anthony saves Soudamini from self immolation and takes her to his place. Now after laying the groundwork, I do not need to stress how dangerous an action this is.

Most of the intellectuals are pissed as he is doing so well in his kavigan face-offs. How dare an upstart European sing hymns to the Goddess? How can he have any knowledge of the Goddess? He is a Christians. And then he goes and rescues a Brahmin Bengali woman.

There have been cases of rape and molestation when European men and Indian women have been concerned. But I think this was the first time, in recorded history, a Brahmin woman consensually began to live with a European man openly, not giving a fuck as to what the villagers have to say.

They were twinflames who dedicated their life to awakening the kundalini, practiced tanta and even worked on developing the kali temple together. Their sadhana deeped and gathered a small following. This was no interracial love story of today where any person can get married to anyone as long as it is legal and sanctified by a court.

But here, there was no court, no law to allow a Brahmin widow to remain at the side of her European lover/partner. Their lives were plagued by attacks from the conservatives.

In the kabiyan competitions, Anthony’s rival poets often brought up Soudamini’s name to taunt and ridicule him. It upset him tremendously, but he learnt to take in in his stride.

This was 1830’s or so, it is now 2017 and not much has changed. Even today, in India, you can get attacked if you are in love with a man from a different faith or caste or whatever. I shared a video recently of a Hindu girl attacked by a woman politician for falling in love with a Muslim. So as you see my love, nothing has really changed.

At least they don’t burn us any more openly and call it sati. They would if they could. After all we need to be chaste and if we are truly chaste and not little whores then the fire would not burn us, would it? What Sita had to go through centuries ago, is very much an active wound in our unconscious.

Anthony and Soudamini were blooming in their creative, spiritual love nest they had created. Anthony had composed the AGAMANI SONGS, for which he became noted and this is like synchronicity on steroids because these hymns were written to Goddess Durga as she comes to visit Earth from her heavenly abode.

Guess what my love. That time is now. Goddess Durga or the KUNDALINI has just stirred and she is making her ascent at this time as I type. The Bengali’s celebrate Durga Puja now and it is the most important festival for them.

The Agamani Songs are to be hymned now and I think the spirit of Hensman Anthony is urging me to tell you his story. He wants you too know how much he loved the woman they took from him.

The world is truly cruel.

His wife Saudamini was burnt to death, for being a widow and re-marrying Anthony, who was a foreigner. ~~Wiki

There, that’s what the Brahmin puritanical conservatives did. They burnt her and their ashram while he was away. He may have returned home from one of his biggest wins to see his whole reality and the love of his life burnt to crisp.

Ominous, isn’t it? Soudamini was pregnant.

This is what bigotry does. This is the scope of fanaticism. As we head into the new Era, let us consider this as a cautionary tale. Maybe they took this karma upon themselves to show us what hatred can do. But in this there is a message…

Even after three hundred years, a random blogger/lifecoach finds this story to tell you at this very precise point in time?!? It means that hate did not win. Ultimately it is their love that won. It is their spiritual mission that is still standing as the Firingi Kalibari where millions of Shakta’s go to invoke the kundalini.

Love wins all my Beloved…

Find a man who will love you like Anthony loved Soudamini. Love a man who will go against all establishment to join with you in sacred union. Or else stay single.

There is an interesting story about the origin of Bagalamukhi, the eighth manifestation of the Divine Feminine.

Now time is broken up into different kalas to denote specific periods. During PURAKAL, there were extremely strong winds which denote chaos and confusion in the mind. Now to combat these winds which could potentially destroy all of creation, VISHNU, the GOD OF PRESERVATION began a strict penance to get answers. This was near some ancient river.

The reference behind the origin of Goddess Bagalamukhi is found in Svatantra Tantra. Once upon a time, a huge storm erupted over the Earth. As it threatened to destroy whole of the creation, all the gods assembled in the Saurashtra region. Goddess Bagalamukhi emerged from the ‘Haridra Sarovara’, and appeased by the prayers of the gods, calmed down the storm. You can see replica of ‘Haridra Sarovara’, as described in scriptures, at Peetambara Peetham, Datia, Madhya Pradesh, India.~~Wiki

But of course all this is ALLEGORY and PARABLE. Let us get to the metaphysics of it.

This means that the HIGHER SELF who is VISHNU aka KRISHNA in the BHAGAVADGITA began to awaken the kundalini with meditation. And after his sadhana was complete, he was blessed with the DEVI’S arrival from the ancient river. This symbolises the AWAKENING OF THE KUNDALINI and there she stood…the Goddess, as BAGALAMUKHI, the resplendent one!

When the kundalini awakens, she is truly resplendent!

As soon as the Goddess surfaces, the destructive winds quieten down. Again this symbolises the fact that as soon as the kundalini rises, there is no turbulence in the mind. The disturbing winds have been silenced! That is the power of the kundalini. She can break through this 3D awareness and take you to other dimensions.

However, there is another to the Goddess Dhumavati and Bagala in the PURANAS.

One day in Kailasha, Parvati approached Shiva to fetch her some food as he was ravenous. Now Shiva, like any other dude, took his own sweet time to get the food to her which is why she ate him. What is a girl to do right? Lol

There is great depth in this cannibalism. Parvati is the kundalini who wants to be fed meditation and spiritual awareness. Now Shiva who symbolises consciousness here, refused to feed all that to the Goddess or the Kundalini and in the process became the consumed.

If you do not feed your spiritual awakening, it will literally eat you up. As a human, as a soul. It will consume you with materialism and addictions of all kinds. And eventually you will be consumed.

Shiva is also the SUPRA CONSCIOUSNESS which is why Parvati’s body starts to decompose. This goes to show that the kundalini, which is the symbol of life needs the human body as much as the human needs the shakti of the kundalini. This links to the OBSERVERS PARADOX. This means that this reality is a hologram being projected from one unitary source. That is Shiva/Parvati or the two polarities. Call them what you want.

Now once she has turned black, Shiva tells her to remove her sindoor which means that she or the kundalini has now reached the crone stage. She is self sufficient, for she has consumed her Shiva. She does not require any balance of polarities, she has become one.

This is when the body turns to spirit, in higher dimensions. You do not need sexual union or a cock and a vagina. You do not need electrons and protons to repel one another for reality to be observed. You just need to realise your crone stage and take in your yang/yin. This is profound.

Dhumavati is the SEVENTH form of the Goddess or the Kundalini! The number seven is the spiritual path, the most unconventional path. Which is why DHUMAVATI sadhana is not done by just anyone. It can never be done at home. In fact, her beeja mantra can never even be uttered at home, or else catastrophe can happen. DHUMAVATI severs you from the samsara. Dhumavati means her form is of smoke which translate to she has NO FORM aja she is formless/timeless/space-less.

Her rituals and invocation can only be done in the charnel grounds.

Now the form of the eighth Goddess is BAGALAMUKHI who is in MANIMANDAPA which is located in AMRITASAGARA and is seated on a throne full of jewels. Jewels here signify spiritual wealth of the Kundalini which when awakened is seated on the metaphorical throne and we become Bagalamukhi.

BAGALAMUKHI is yellow.

In almost every culture yellow represents sunshine, happiness, and warmth. Yellow is the color most often associated with the deity in many religions (Hinduism and Ancient Egypt). Yellow is the color of traffic lights and signs indicating caution all over the world. ~~colormatters.com

It also represents clarity, purity, freshness, happiness, positivity, clarity, energy, optimism, enlightenment, remembrance, intellect, honour, loyalty, and joy, but on the other, it represents cowardice and deceit and Bagala is the Goddess of reversals.

Bagalamukhi is also called Pitambaradevi or Brahmastra Roopini and she turns each thing into its opposite. She turns speech into silence, knowledge into ignorance, power into impotence, defeat into victory. She represents the knowledge whereby each thing must in time become its opposite. As the still point between dualities she allows us to master them. To see the failure hidden in success, the death hidden in life, or the joy hidden in sorrow are ways of contacting her reality. Bagalamukhi is the secret presence of the opposite wherein each thing is dissolved back into the Unborn and the Uncreated. ~~Wiki

Bagala is the shakti of Mars. The feminine or the yin or the kundalini shakti of Mars. Yes every planet in the tantra system has their devi or kundalini shakti.

In fact her invocation is the most comprehensive way to deal with any Mars afflictions or hard aspects. Believe me, without a strong Mars, it is impossible to move ahead and perform in this world.

Kamakhya Temple in Guwahati is considered to be the centre of Tantricism, where there is the presence of temples dedicated to the ten Mahavidyas. A few miles away from the Kamakhya Temple is the temple dedicated to the Goddess Bagalamukhi. I will explore Kamakhya in detail very soon in another article, but this is the very heart and Bengal and parts of the North where she is worshipped the most.

Baglamukhi is the eighth mahavidya, invoked for destruction of enmity, often mistaken for enemy. This is the Supreme divine force, believed to have been invoked by Lord Ram to destroy the demon Ravan with his descendants. ~~Wiki

And the saga of Rama and Ravana could only be dealt with after invoking the kundalini….

I watch Nina listening to a lecture. She looks at the lecturer, with a longing on her face, but she does well to hide it; scribbling a haiku on her notepad, she tries not to escape to the land of imagination where he’s undressing her.

Her haiku reads something like this-

Songs of the fallen leaves

Autumn’s introverted smile

A longing.

The lecturer has finished, the class disbands. Nina saunters up to him, her face glowing.

He turns back to look at her. He’s much younger here; his face looked hardened in the future, in the Police Station. His face had lost its softness, its compassion while he will be looking at her through that mirror in a few years. But right now, he’s younger, happier and obviously fascinated by this young woman in front.

“Good day Sir,” Nina is all chirpy and excited. “I was just going through your essay, Dream interpretation, ancient and modern, it’s very well written and it opens a window of Jungian dream interpretation into practise.”

“Thank you, it was a study of his seminar of 1936-41; it is a must for anyone interested in dream work and the legacy of Jungian psychology.” He smiles back at her, so youthful, so peppy; he wanted to reach out and touch her, instead he nodded politely and walked off.

Nina walks in the other direction, a wicked smile plays on her lips.

What a love story this could have been, but it was not meant to! There was a vital piece to the puzzle of Nina’s life and he was in London at this time, his name was Frank.

A photographer and documentarian, Frank was at this very moment trying to get his papers in order to travel to India.

He had always wanted to visit this country; his father had driven to India in a bus during the 60’s, his parents had met there and had him in Pondicherry.

Frank had returned to England when he was three or four, his parents divorced and India was a taboo subject never to be brought up again.

Ah the beauty of Auroville, the meandering pathways as he rode on the bicycle with his dad, the plush, green foliage, the smell of incense and camphor in the air, the smiling faces- all these images haunted him. He tried to suppress these memories, those smells, those colours, but his brain stubbornly held on to them.

Now that he was a grown up, those memories began to trouble him overtime and this time there was no suppressing them. He tried very hard a few years ago; his then girlfriend Helena was all up for it, but when all things were almost arranged the H1N1 scare blew out in full force in their faces.

He would’ve still flown to India, but Helena did not want to risk her life, as she so eloquently put it. “I don’t want to go to a filthy country with Swine Flu at large, are you crazy.”

Frank had to back off and shelve his plan again for the umpteenth time. Life has one definitively quality- it goes on; and so it kept on going until one day everything between him and Helena was over. Those memories flooded his conscious ful force- Auroville! He remembered how the matrimandir glimmered in the sun, the deep silence in it. At that moment he was transported to that white marble room where his parents meditated every evening.

He moved into a studio apartment and got busy with work. During an exhibit from a fellow photographer who shot amazing portraits of holy men or sadhus in Varanasi, their long, flowing beards, hair longer than their height, the wisdom in their eyes, the unfathomable mystery surrounding them that Frank could not wait any longer. It seemed like one particular image of a sadhu, very young, athletic, golden fair skin and piercing black eyes, with cascading copper hair spoke to him. Frank did not know what he heard or rather felt as he gazed at that image, but he knew he had to have it. The deal concluded, that photograph in his hands, he made up his mind. Yes, India, I am coming, do you hear, Mom, dad, I’m going to India, he shouted standing over the Thames in the dark of the night.

He decided to immediately start the process; the paper work at least. It’s true that what you’re seeking is seeking you too.

The same photographer whose mind blowing work had inspired Frank and from whom he bought that photo which hangs over his bed, which he looks at constantly and feels this feverish longing for who knows what, invited him to the Indian Embassy for a gathering.

There he met Dalia Chakraverty from an N.G.O in India; they were doing some great work with street children in Bombay and she was here, in the U.K. to raise awareness and get some funding.

They got talking and he expressed his desire to shoot their work which can greatly aid them in their quest of looking for funding. She was thrilled to have the work of the NGO documented, and gave him an email address which said Ninaray@gmail.com.

Little did he know that this was the moment of reckoning- life as he knew it would be over? A flood of poetry would soon inundate his life.

Dalia told him to contact Nina when he visits India, no they could not pay him much, but Frank didn’t care as long as he had a tiny support system in Bombay, he could make a photo-doc on the street kids for himself; He wrote to that address as soon as he could get to a computer. Nina and Frank began to exchange emails on a regular basis.

He discovered that the NGO did some truly amazing work, they teach inside a bus. Nina is one of the programme-heads besides being a severely talented poet (he had already googled her and visited her website and Facebook page, read her poetry, saw her photos in literary festivals; she looks after a few areas and also teaches, writes dramas, holds workshops and seminars.

She sent him clips, of herself in this unique classroom.

The first time Frank saw her, he was pretty excited. He even scolded himself for feeling something in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he had had when he was twelve and had seen his first crush change in the country club. No, it felt way stronger. It hit him hard. He felt himself get enlarged and found bliss as he touched himself.

He had a stronger feeling this time of butterflies in his stomach, yes definitely much stronger than he’d ever felt before as he watched Nina intently.

Nina, dressed in a salwar kameez,(Indian traditional clothes have a certain allure, he thought) has a puppet of a crow in one hand and a puppy in another. The bus is full of children, some snotty and dirty, some cleaner, better dressed, some have smiley faces and some look like they’re out of Juvenile prison.

There are around sixty-five of them there; quite a number!

Nina performs this puppet show, she asks questions in a naive, puppy voice, questions like, why must we go to school for a math test, when we can play gilli danda? The crow scolds the puppy and replies why education is beneficial. It’s all conceptualized, written and directed by her; can this woman be more of a creative force, he thought.

Although the whole show is in Hindi, Frank understands by way of gesticulations, voice modulations, body language and expressions. He laughs heartily; here is a woman who is funny, caring and very desirable.

He forcibly tries to divert his mind from her, but it’s impossible. It’s like the blood in his veins is like the tide and she’s the full moon.

He cannot stop from watching the clip over and over, until the tune, the words and her silken voice are all embedded in his psyche, and the same with her poetry.

There was a video on her channel; it was in Sunderban, the largest Mangrove eco-systems of the world and the home of the Royal Bengal Tiger. She was in this raft going over the turbulent Matla River just as the night descends. Reciting it herself, she almost takes him to that land of magic; her voice rich with emotions. Her poem is called The Magic Lantern.

The rustic landscape,

The babbling brook,

The trees of hoary antiquity shook,

The phantom shapes,

Shadows cast by the lantern on the mindscreen of my brain.

Beautifully insane!

It’s better than any film in which I could escape.

The magic lantern projects my thought foolish,

My hopes futile and my dreams hollow.

The reality I cannot swallow.

I could forget everything and sway on this raft forever,

On the drunken Matla river,

Watching the films I create,

Each time it’s a dream destroyed,

Over and over again.

Her voice echoes in his mind constantly; he could listen to it for days.

He goes to sleep and dreams; once he’s in that raft with her, watching the sunset on the Matla River and then he dreams of himself as a child on that bus, she sings to him, no one else can hear obviously, they’re studying. But he can and she sings to him, and she wears only a diaphanous cloth, a wet saree? Fuck, talk about clichés. He could see her nipples, the hair in her pubic region and all he wanted to do was make love to her. He was twelve all over again and his organ was hard and stiff. He awoke groaning to see he had wet his boxers, he smiled, and it had been ages since he had a wet dream.

Formal it was between them, but gradually as time flew by, they developed a friendship. One day they would meet each other and that day is not far.

Paper work and red-tape always takes time, and Frank waited with bated breath; it would soon be time to experience India, the India of his childhood again, and this time he had made a special friend. The shoot was also exciting, how often does a photog from London gets to shoot impoverished juvenile delinquent street kids in Mumbai? A rerun of Danny Boyle, eh?

He loved the way Nina called it Bombay, just like he had heard in his childhood, Bombay, the city of dreams, Bombay, the city of tears!

Frank finds himself seated at the Heathrow airport one day, yes, the moment is finally here!

He climbs into the aircraft, sits down at the window and tries to surf through a Better Photography edition. He keeps turning the pages, not reading a line, not registering a single image, just thinking; he keeps visualizing the meeting with her. He keeps going through this meeting a thousand times in his head, with slight variations; what sounds intelligent, what could possibly attract her, all these thoughts are running through his mind, but he knows that in order to get her attention he must first be himself.

Just relax, he kept telling himself, speak to her about common interests; we’d definitely have common interests.

His stomach feels like jelly, the plane is doing some sort of freaky circular manoeuvres; they’re waiting for a signal clearance.

His head’s spinning he feels excited like a two year old; the food served had been terrible and not a morsel of it had gone into his mouth. He could hear loud rumbling from down there, yes, he was ravenous.

What did he expect? It had been years since he had waited to come to this very place. The airhostess was announcing something in Hindi and although she had huge teeth and was covered in makeup, she still looked pretty to him, adorned in a red saree.

He could figure out what was being said, but the sound of this not-so-alien language, felt oddly comforting.

He did not have any relatives here, he did not have a home here, the only person he knows here is Nina; yet, he oddly felt at home.

The aircraft landed at Chatrapati Shivaji Terminal and it was some 38 degrees, translation- it was hot!

He managed to take a swig of water and disembarked from the plane. He suddenly saw himself in the mirror as he was going down. He looked silly, smiling from ear to ear. The rumbling in his stomach had settled down. Hunger? It was as if he’d never heard that word.

After picking up his luggage, he goes to grab a taxi. Now the city hits him straight in the face. It’s loud, it’s colourful and then it became really stretched and contorted, like looking through a fish-eye lens.

He tries to take in the sights and sounds, but it’s a bit too much; he’d expected something totally different.

He remembered Auroville briefly in his mind’s eye, but he was not prepared for Bombay. Yes, he’d seen pictures, he’d done all the research on Youtube, but the images, the videos, nothing could prepare him for this!!!

The whole city, he felt like he was making love to it, it’s intense, totally insane, like a forbidden tryst with someone closer than the breaths, yet, at the same time totally alien, like from some other universe!

In the creative circle in Western Europe, living and working in India has a particular kind of misplaced glamour attached to it, a special sparkle that had people crowding around Frank at parties.”You plan on living in India? You were actually born there!!! Wow, really? What’s it like?”

The closest he ever came to answering that question is that it’s like being in a very intense, extremely dysfunctional relationship and that had them in splits.

He had tried to evaluate his emotions, on one level was this immense attraction, then again somewhere there was a deep aversion; how was he going to placate this schizophrenia of his brain? How was he going to exist in this polarity? Time to drop all pre-conceived ideas and notions!

I have known Mumbai, previously called Bombay, intimately, it’s one of those cities, dark and dank, yet budding with life; I’ve seen terrible things – a child of not more than three fall under a train, sliced to pieces, little children with ears that have been chopped off and disfigured, eyes stabbed with hot coal, old, frail men sitting in the rain nursing half-limbs while they beg, infants and their filthy mothers covered in flies, caked in dust nursing on the pavement, beggars with no limbs weaving themselves through traffic on broken trolleys which did not even have all the wheels functional, sweaty men in lunghis working with their nimble hands in tiny corridors with no fans in sky-high temperatures. I’ve seen ghastly things, of gang rapes in buses and local trains, corruption in the Government, bureaucratic red-tape, environmental abuse, and bloody encounters by corrupt Police officers. Time has seen the devastation that is Bombay!

I have also seen the glitz, the glamour, the hard work of actors and artists, films being shot under much stress with sweat and blood, haunting background scores composed, marriages consummated people in love singing in the rain. I have seen life; I have seen death and lots of filmi-giri!!!

Anyway, this poor firangi hops off the taxi, and checks the address on his smartphone. Yes he’s in the right place. He sees the NGO board reading ASHA.

The time has finally come; he’s going to be face to face with her. He feels those butterflies again; he sternly chides himself, stop this shit, you’re no twelve year old, you’re a grown man for heaven’s sake.

He enters through a small gate into the NGO, it’s very noisy like an Indian bazaar, little kids, preschoolers, teenagers, are all seen hovering around. Some are in classes, some are waiting for their checkups outside a tiny door with a red cross, some are playing in a tiny courtyard, some are discussing their studies; Frank is swamped with sights and sounds.

It’s too distracting! He walks up to the tiny desk which says reception; the woman in the desk is having samosas and chai. She looks at him through her glasses, yes, what do you want?

What did he want? The image of Nina comes to his mind, which is correct on so many levels, he smiles to himself.

“I’m here to meet Ms. Nina Ray, we have an appointment.” He sounds all professional.

“Oh yes, she will be here shortly,” says the woman in between munching her samosa and sipping her tea. “Sit down.” She beckons to a wooded bench.

Sitting down, he watches the children, he should probably be checking his emails go on Facebook, but no, he watches, there’s so much life in them, dreams of tomorrow in their souls that it touches a chord in his soul. The world has not managed to crush them, that’s the beauty of children, they are the agents of tomorrow and today can never have a hold on them like it can on adults.

Out of the blue, a brilliant idea strikes him. Why not involve these kids in a photography workshop? These children can explore their creativity through photography, what better way to find some meaning in this meaningless world?

Pick a group, hand them cheap digital cameras and make them take pictures, of anything and everything, of the world around them, let them show him what the world looked like through their eyes. He was sort of visualizing this project when Nina walks in.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for the first look, kind of like Bombay. What eyes, the look in them is of so much wisdom is his first thought. Of course she looks even better in person, there’s no doubt about that. And her smile? She smiles at him and he realizes that he’s just gawking at her like an idiot.

Her smile is so radiant, so calming to his frayed nerves and the world makes such a big deal about the smile of the Mona Lisa, seriously they need to see this smile. Then he decides that not only her smile, her whole aura is so luminescent, she’s actually shining.

Smiles are exchanges and small talk begins like any other people who’ve just met; but in all this peripheral niceties, there seemed to be an odd familiarity about them. They seemed to settle into an easy going friendship soon enough, and Nina’s ecstatic to hear his photography workshop idea.

She has work to do, she tells him; can we meet later?

Oh, I thought I would just follow you through the day and observe the whole process. Shit, please let her not send me home, he thinks gloomily.

Ok if you’re not jet lagged or tired, sure come along. She replies.

I think I see a brief moment of excitement in her eyes, they light up like shooting stars for that brief second, or did I just imagine it? Is she happy to have my company? Probably not, but maybe, just maybe she likes me, a little bit, his thoughts are in overdrive.

Nina takes him to the play area, he can see little children painting the walls, some mixing paint.

They become ecstatic to see Nina. They immediately surround her and begin to drown her talking ten to a dozen.

She can barely hear anything in this torrent of words, but she’s trying to listen with a lopsided smile and at the same time, she’s trying to shhhh them. One at a time, she tells, chup hojayo.

With mischievous smiles on their faces, the kids quieten down and begin to talk to her in giggly voices. “Why are you so late miss?”

“We’re almost done”. “We waited and waited.” ‘You did not even select the colour.”

Nina smiles, ruffles some of their heads, pats them on the back, squeezes some cheeks, all these displays of affection are so effortless on her end that it endears him. It seems to Frank like she’s indeed their older sister. And the love she has for them is evident in her face, her voice and the time she dedicates here.

“Ok bacchon, now that I’m here, let’s get this thing going, shuru karein, shall we?” She rubs her hands in glee.

The children are gleefully smiling and prancing around her in animated enthusiasm.

She looks at him, “Helping out?”

He nods, it strikes him now; she’s so full of life, so full of compassion that his heart aches to hold her. Maybe some of her infectious nature would rub onto him, his bleary, dull, cold existence would be over and therein would begin a journey of colours, scents and feelings- all things missing from his life.

She’s so different from the women back home; he’d never met anyone like her before. Her compassion, her exuberance, her innocence, they are called out to special parts of his brain; not the more primitive side assocated with thirst, hunger, sleep and sex, but it quietened his right parietal lobe.

Our Angrezi babu is not one of that mumbo-jumbo metaphysician wanna-be, new agey, hippy-types, spouting OM SHANTI, wearing rudrax beads. He would’ve landed up to be one such person humming Jai Gurudeva, Lennon style if his parents wouldn’t have divorced. Where did all that spirituality lead them? To a divorce, so Frank never bought into that vibe. In fact this entire gander about spirituality with the new age movement in the West got him bored, even angry at times thinking of how he could’ve still been in Auroville if they actually understood what it all meant, but for the first time when he met Nina he understood, if only briefly what it meant to have a spiritual connection with a total stranger.

He quickly nodded yes, as these thoughts were going through his mind; she did give him an odd look as if she could read his thoughts in the bubble over his head.

Nina goes to an old iron cupboard, which had been repeatedly painted over; it houses the coats she wears while painting. She puts on one and gives him the other; it’s really tight and dabs of dried out, washed off colours still form fractals on it, it is small for his 6 two and a half, athletic frame, but he puts it on anyway amidst giggles and laughter from all present.

They begin to mix the colours; it’s all bright and shiny. Mixing colours could be so much fun was a new revelation to him; the children laughed, Nina is saying all kinds of hilarious little bits which has them rolling on the floor continuously and then she has to feign anger to get them back at doing what was assigned.

Even though the kids had put the very first coat of paint, it still needed an expert’s touch. Nina begins to apply another coat over it with straight neat strokes, she hands over a roller to Frank who begins to dip it in the paint and follows her lead. They paint the Sun, the moon, the clouds, torrents of rain and soon the room looks colourful with its bright yellow Sun, pale luminescent moon, clouds shaded grey and blue, it looks wonderful; what a joint effort!!

The air smells of plastic paint, sweat and smiles and giggles; there’s no short of excitement, especially when it’s time for a break and vada pao with tiny mud cups holding cuttings of chai is served.

They all wolf down the food, and so does Frank, who had been told repeatedly in the U.K. to never touch food from the streets, but here with Nina and the kids, he didn’t even stop to think of all the cautionary tales he had been fed.

It all seemed very natural, very organic to him; like he’s always been here, in their midst, sharing their carefree hysterics and just having fun with them, painting dilapidated walls while snacking on Indian street food. He had somehow in such a short while become a part of this, this sincere love, this camaraderie Nina shared with children who were from the streets. She was truly a special girl.

Frank remembers the camera in his bag pack, the day is over and he wishes he’d managed to get some shots of the day. His resolution to work with these kids becomes stronger, yes; they’re definitely ready for a photography workshop. Who knows, maybe he could speak to the galleries back home, if they’d be interested to host a show of photographs from these children.

It is now almost evening; Nina says her goodbyes after reading them all a story, her leaving brings tears to their eyes and she kisses and hugs each one of them and promises to be back soon.

Frank also says his goodbyes and he is sent off with hugs and smiles like he’s been coming here forever; and even he has to commit to the children to return with Nina as soon as possible. A little surprised, he notes how actually he feels like coming back soon to work and play with these children.

They climb onto an auto rickshaw from the N.G.O, and Nina asks him where he would like to be dropped. He’s a bit stunned; he’d expected a meal and some time spent together with her. He tries to politely bring it up; maybe you can show me the city a bit?

Oh, she seems surprised, you’re not flat out tired, and you still want to go somewhere. She laughs. He laughs with her, “I’m insatiable you see.”

“Ya I see that,” she’s got a wicked expression.

“Juhu beach chalo,” she tells the rickshaw driver.

They ride off into the land of dust and smoke that is Mumbai, the rickshaw stops at traffic signals where beggars and transsexuals come to beg for money.

Teri jori salamat rahe, coos a transvestite and makes strange gestures with her hands, she even reaches out and cups Nina’s face; instead of cringing Nina gives her a ten rupee note and smiles.

The transvestite blows a kiss and moves on. “What did she say?” asks the curious Frank.

“Oh nothing, it’s just an age-old strategy to get some money; she blessed us.” Nina has a lot of explaining to do.

“In this country, the blessings of a transvestite are supposed to hold good, you know, and she said that we’ll be very happy together.” Laughs Nina.

Oh, it finally sunk in. “She thought we are a couple.” Frank’s already in dreamland.

“Apparently so.”

Only if that were true, he thinks. Only if he could kiss her and hold her, if only he could be a child again; a burden would be lifted off his shoulders, but could that be possible?

I’m getting ahead of myself; he scolds the excited voices in his head. Shut up and just be.

They come to this open beach, it’s Juhu Beach she tells him. After paying the rickshaw off, they walk towards the numerous shops selling pani puri, chole batura, ragda pattice; they find a vendor and she orders pani puri.

He beckons to the vendor to hand him a paper plate as well. Water filled puris are served with hot ragda to them, Nina eats hers while watching Frank who puts the puri in his mouth and then almost gags as the spicy tamarind water full of green chillies is too much for him to handle.

Spit it out, she tells him, but no, he just wants a minute or two as his mouth gets used to the stinging sensation, he gobbles down the other puri which has been waiting in the vendor’s hand for some time. One after another he downs the water filled puris like he’s been doing it all his life.

They finish two plates each, their stomach’s on fire. Nina points to the Golas. “Popsicles,” she tells him.

“Let’s get one,” he nods.

They each get two golas; on her suggestion, he tries out the kalakhatta flavour.

As his tongue licks the ice and syrup, he finds the tangy taste of the gola really appealing; he tries to make sense of the taste, it kind of tastes like a version of Coca Cola with black salt and lemon she tells him, but it’s not as poisonous as a coke. The added colouring will not kill you; the water might, only if Malaria or Dengue doesn’t do the job before. They burst out laughing.

Nina wipes his mouth with a tissue and their eyes meet; although its casual, although it’s just a glance, he feels something happen between them, an eternity compressed into a moment. He’s sure she felt it too, but you could never say that from her face, she wipes her own mouth and tragic-comically points to her mouth which has turned black from the colouring. She opens her mouth and rolls her tongue out, it’s black and he just that. She nods and laughs, it’s the same.

They walk on the crowded beach, my god; he’d never seen a beach quite so crowded. The air is pregnant with the smell of salt and fried food.

The sea is a peculiar colour, neither grey, nor blue, nor green, as if on this day it has not made up its mind. The sky above is a curtain of pollution and smog and there are hardly any clouds above. The Sun is dazzling in its brilliance and getting a heat stroke seems very probable for poor Frank.

There were only domiciles and huge skyscrapers in the horizon, not much of a sea-side view, but what could you expect in the heart of Bombay suburbia. The sea is more of a hiss than a song, and it swelled silently, but the diminutive waves seemed to be juveniles, not sure of themselves as they crashed and rippled half-heartedly. Clumps of garbage are washed up on the beach, a dupatta here, a discarded shoe there, broken glass bangles, the head of a plastic doll!

The real estate here is one of the most expensive in the world, but the sea will definitely cough up garbage every now and then. The beauty of Bombay! The beach seems endless from where they stand, nestled by the shores were highly priced bungalows, mostly owned by Bollywood celebrities.

Cawing crows are scavenging and flying overhead in huge numbers, harassing the beach-goers in their search for scraps. Tongues rolling and stomachs growling, the stray dogs come wagging their tails when they see you take a bite of your food. Ah the masti of Juhu beach!

There were people strolling around eating, kids playing, shrieking their lungs out; women in bright sarees dazzled his eyes, glass bangles tinkled in their hands and they just walked up and down the beach.

Women in burquas, all covered in black also walked up and down with numerous kids of all ages. He could not imagine how they tolerated the heat under all those clothes.

“What’s this? Does no one swim?” he asks her.

Nina nods her head, nope Mister. This is not your typical Baywatch scene.

“So Indian women swim in sarees?” he’s very surprised.

“I don’t think they’d ever swim here, in front of so many people, it’s just not our culture here.” She says

“Do you swim?” he asks cautiously.

She gives him a glance, smiles mischievously and pulls him towards the sea.

“Why not? Let’s swim.” She responds

“No, no wait,” he’s shocked. “I have all my equipment.”

“Oh that’s your problem.” She’s run into the sea, fully clothed.

People are looking at her, some are pointing, youngsters are laughing; she’s managed to get everyone’s attention.

Frank was captivated by her bashful innocence; he kept his bag with the pani puri vendor and ran after her.

They swam near each other, never close enough to touch, but he felt as if her presence enveloped him and it felt wonderful.

A policeman pops up to watch what’s happening, people crowd around the beach to watch them as if they were about to perform a duet, Bollywood style in the water.

Well after a little bout of swimming, their hearts jubilant, they make their way back to the beach. People are smiling at them; some folks are obviously disapproving, especially elder women.

“Yemaya assesu, assesu Yemaya, Yemaya olodo, olodo Yemaya…

Nina hums so softly that he had to crane his neck to catch on, the background noise is no help of course. Her soft, mellifluous voice in its pure magic transports Frank to some other realm altogether.

“What was that? The song?”

A smile lit up her eyes, “Oh it’s from the Yeruba tribe in Nigeria, it’s an ode to the goddess Yemaya.”

“Yamaya?” Frank has never heard that name, but yet, he felt like he had.

“This chant celebrates the journey of the river to the Sea and the final annihilation of its personal identity to be merged with the great ocean, it’s an allegory, the journey is actually of the soul to be immersed into that one supreme truth…beautiful and so poignant…whenever I’m near the sea I sing this song, don’t know why it reminds me of my mother, although she never sang it, I don’t even know if she’d heard it, but still somehow it brings her to me, in a small part, but it does…” Such intensity in those eyes, Frank wants to kiss her, but he says or does nothing. He figures, she’s lost her mother, but somehow he could not say “sorry” the way most people do when they realize that the person in front has lost someone important to them, but in this case, the sorry would seem so superfluous, silence spoke volumes instead.

She continues, “it’s so strange, this reality, the meandering river seeks the sea as the soul seeks the truth, but in both cases, the individual ego is destroyed…the river exists no more, it is the sea, but then the sea is also the river, they’re one and the same…I long for my sea…” a sigh escapes her lips and in this dreamy state she’s oblivious to the crowds staring at them as they stroll leisurely towards the vendor’s stall.

Frank collects his equipment from the vendor, and looks at Nina for some clue as to what would be their plan of action next.

“Shall we take a small walk,” she asks smiling.

By now, there are stars in the sky; the moon is a smiley face and it’s her face he sees in it today.

They walk all wet and soggy; the wind’s quite strong and is doing a good enough job of gradually drying them.

They walk to a small restaurant and order masala chai. Nina opens her bag to take out a cigarette and out pops a book. It lands on the sand and Frank retrieves it.

He looks at the novel- THE TRIAL, by Franz Kafka.

“Are you wondering why I have that book, besides reading it of course?” She reads his mind. “Have you read it?”

“Yes, ages ago,” he replies digging into his memory.

“I love the way Kafka deals with our dual nature…our propensity towards evil and our struggle between intellectual introspective reason and self sacrifice…” her voice sounds like a lute with magical qualities to it and he feels warm in spite of being soaked like a wet umbrella; he’d never known a woman to explain Kafka to him.

She continues in her velvety voice, “Imagine to be executed in the state of ignorance.” His face is a blank, for the life of him; he cannot seem to remember a single line from any of Kafka’s work.

She knows his dilemma, “Well, The Trial is one of Kafka’s best known works, it tells the story of a man arrested and prosecuted by a remote inaccessible authority and the nature of his crime never revealed to him or to us, the readers.

“Oh my, so you don’t know why this bloke was incarcerated? That’s tragic aye?” He is surprised.

“Nope, I don’t and yes it is tragic but there is a dark humour to it. Imagine being put away by the Government for something you’re not even aware of, how scary is that.”

She’s toying with the book and sniffing it.

Frank watches her.

“I sniff books; they take me to different places in my mind. They remind me of different things. They memory capsules; say today page 27 may remind me of the first time Dadu( my grandfather) took me to the Kali temple at Kangra valley, then again tomorrow it might remind me of the day I submitted my paper on Cognitive dissonance. Today PAGE 49 may remind me of the Coffee House in Calcutta and tomorrow it might remind me of the shelter and the fudge we ate from Lonavala.” She smiles

To him it all seems like a film, he feels like the viewer, watching this beautiful screen siren playing her part, the intellectual and the beautifully sexy, only this time, its slightly different; he, the viewer is being allowed to participate in the film.

He is a part of the film and yet, he’s just a viewer, watching the exposition in a dark, cold theatre, it’s surreal, his very own Un Chien Andalou. The moment is so rare, the breeze, the smells in the air, the background sound of the waves crashing mingling with the excessive honking creates a kind of symphony for him, and it’s not offensive anymore. But then again, he tries to concentrate, she’s saying something, but her words are not making any sense to him. The film suddenly seems like it’s in a foreign language and there are no subtitles.

The moment is escaping, he wants to hold onto this feeling in his being, this feeling of dreaming, yet, awake, and he wants this moment to stand still. But I do not wait for anyone, I must pass I must flow like a river, you can never touch the same bit of water twice, remember the flow continues and will never remain in one place. Time and tide wait for no one!

The channel changes, suddenly it’s back to English again and this time he can participate in the film again. But what happened to all that time he was lost in this dream, looking at it through the lens of his unconscious?

“Society is capable of reducing a human into an insect and lesson number two- humans are selfish and self absorbed living in a world of give and take.” These fragmented words came to settle in his ears.

He looks astonished, so she shakes her head and asks, “Were you not listening? I was talking about the most important lessons in Kafka?”

Frank orients himself and nods.

She bursts out laughing, “I promise to stop, no more Kafka okay…”

He smiles sheepishly.

“Enough of my banter, tell me about your exciting life, anyone special back home?” so at least she’s curious about that aspect, it gave him a boyish hope.

He shakes his head, “People scare me mostly.”

“Hell is other people.” She retorts. “Sartre hit the nail on the head.”

He can certainly relate to that.

The walk on the beach with a crescent moon and twinkling stars to keep them company becomes a special memory to both the protagonists, etched into their minds forever.

“You know you have to recite the Tara Gayatri in the morning …” said my Dadu and I am not a morning person. Grrrrr!

TARA agrees. There she stands smiling.

This mantra takes me back to my childhood. I have been saying this mantra since I could speak every morning. I had no idea how important it was to do SHAKTI/TARA puja. I had no idea.

Talking to an Avadhuta in one of my first Mahakumbhamela gatherings, I learnt that according to the Tarasara in the Rudradhyaya, one should meditate on the yoni/pussy covered with svayambhu flowers and the lingam and recite this. Around hundred crore repetitions have to be done to activate this. And no sadhika can get siddhi in this GUPTA VIDYA or hidden knowledge if this is not recited first thing in the morning.

DADU made me do it even before I stepped off the bed. You have to read my novel to know who DADU really is or was. He is not with me in 3D anymore, but he never left.

And Tara smiles. You know that IMMENSE feeling if you are a true SHAKTA or GODDESS WORSHIPPER. The Goddess appears in everything- in every woman, in every sunshine, in every teardrop.

Shaktas conceive the Goddess as the supreme, ultimate, eternal reality of all existence, or same as the Brahman concept of Hinduism. She is considered to be simultaneously the source of all creation, its embodiment and the energy that animates and governs it, and that into which everything will ultimately dissolve. ~~wiki

Sometimes she appears as NILA SARASWATI in my visions. Let me tell you about that time I visited Tarapith with a Nath Aghora Yogi I met in the Mahakumbha mela. He had practised much of his vidya in the cremation grounds of Tarapith and he agreed to take me.

If you don’t know what that is, let me give you a brief story.

It is the seat of TARA VIDYA where the MAHARISHI from the Vedic pantheon VEDAVYASA achieved TARA siddhi. The story goes something like this…

Vedavyasa tried repetitively to gain siddhi in Tara worship, but no matter how hard he tried, he kept failing. At a point he was guided by Tara herself to seek out Shakyamuni Buddha who was known to be in Mahachina which in ancient Indian texts is Tibet.

So Vyasa ultimately found Shakyamuni who initiated him in the GUPTA VIDYA of Tara sadhana and yes, he finally understood the WISDOM OF SHAKTI or SOPHIYA as the kabbalists would call her.

Anyway that is the power of this Tara Gayatri, so start by reciting this every morning.

Now back to Tara. Tara is also known as KAMAKHYA, the VULVA which represents SHAKTI in Guwahati, Assam. Kamakhya is a special place of interest for me.

The shrine stands atop the NILGIRI or the BLUE MOUNTAINS and is shrouded in mystery and lore. The recent temple was built in the 16th century but Tara tells me it is much older. Almost as old as the land itself! And the TANTRIC FERTILITY RITUAL is performed during the Ambubachi Mela which is the celebration of the yearly menstruation course of goddess Kamakhya. There is no idol of the presiding deity but she is worshipped in the form of a yoni-like stone instead over which a natural spring flows.

During this time you will see sadhus, saints and siddhas who do not appear anywhere else at any time. They live isolated but come for their rituals during this festival. I have been there many times and it is wild! Too many people come now, but if you manage to speak to the right siddhas and they are willing to talk, then the proverbial goldmine opens up in front of you.

Kamakhya is a emanation of SATI.

Sati and Dakshayagya. If you don’t know much about this, then know this that Sati was the wife of Shiva. Now there is a clash depicted here between her father who ruled the heavens and Shiva who lived in the cremation grounds. Same old Romeo Juliet stuff.

Daddy does not approve, Sati marries Shiva anyways and moves away. But she misses her family. Then she hears of her father performing a special YAGYA which will bring peace to heaven and Earth. Everyone in the whole Universe was invited except Shiva and her. She decides to go although Shiva warns her and the rest is History…

She gets insulted and immolates herself. Shiv arrives and brings the end of creation with his famous TANDAV. The dance that brings PRALAYA or the destruction of the multiverses!

BRAHMA/VISHNU/SHIVA- THE TRINITY RESPONSIBLE FOR CREATION/PRESERVATION AND DESTRUCTION, so to PRESERVE the multiverses VISHNU releases his ultimate weapon- the SUDARSHANA CHAKRA which slices SATI’S dead body into FIFTY TWO parts which fall on Earth and became the SHAKTIPEETHS. These are the most powerful vortixes of energy.

Now getting back to KAMAKHYA, let me tell you that place is of special importance in my sadhana. I have been visiting it since I was seven and every time it feels like I am entering a parallel world, so steeped it is in magick, folklore and mysticism.

Tara or Kamakhya is so potent here, her energy REVERBERATES through the winds that blow, the stars that shine and the rain that falls. Her smile is present in the hibiscus flowers. Sometimes I see her tongue in the fires that burn the dead bodies. The dancing flames dance in my eyes.

Here TARA is KAMARUPA, the form of desire and she is worshipped as the yoni (“vulva,” “womb,” or “source”). KAMAKHYA my peeps is true PUSSY POWER and if you have any connection to tantra or Shakti, then you will concur.

You know what SHIVA did? He became BHAIRAV and established himself right next to the yoni. What is he without her? Nothing? He won’t even be Shiva to create and destroy Universes if he does not have his Shakti.

You know what my plans are…I want to raise enough funds to go and live in Kamkhya for a year or so, to shoot, write and create unique content on the more misunderstood, esoteric aspects of Yoni Puja. Tara is smiling and that dubious smile tells me nothing.

Maam meem muum or maim maum maah- that is the mantra to invoke the divine yoni/pussy. If you are a woman, all you need is YONI NYASA to do the ritual. However if you are a man, then you need a living Goddess. If you are not sure, message me.

Dr. Ramnath Aghori came to me in my dreams. He took me to Nepal. It is fascinating when we talk. I have never heard him talk, but he conveys his ideas to me through telepathy. I discover that RAMNATH BABA had sanctified and locked away a tiny room near a hill. It was a temple and no one was allowed to open it. But the QUEEN OF Nepal did so and the repercussions were severe. Her son shot the whole family. You know about the bloody Nepali shootout killing the royals. This room was not any ordinary room.

I think that room is an energy vortex. You know there are dimensional warps yes? And lots of Shakti peeths are built on them or near them. And SHIVA LINGAMS are on the ley lines.

Ramnath Baba is a reincarnation of Garakhnath. I have always known this. Ramnath baba lived and did tapas in the BHOOTNATH cremation grounds for many years. In fact that is one place he still visits most frequently. I am dying to visit this spot. It has many answers I know.

Oh a thing worth mentioning. If you read about Ramnath baba online there are some American disciples who have written about him. Now they mention BYOMSHANKAR AGHORI and claim he was seven feet, blond and blue eyed. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Baba BYMSHANKAR AGHORI is from Bengal, from a tiny hamlet called BAKRESHWAR. There are some writings on him in Bengali and yes, he was the last lineage holder of Swayambhunatha or Guru Padmasambhava. No one has seen him since a few decades, but the people in the village thik that he still comes

We Bengalis have intertwined much with Tibetan spirituality as tantra travelled from the golden banks of Bengal to Tibet, to China, to Mongolia and to Japan and of course then spread all over the world.

The MUSLIM TURKISH ARMY destroyed one of the greatest libraries of the ancient past- NALANDA. They say it burnt for many many months after it was set on fire. Imagine the priceless tantric and yogic texts that were destroyed.

You know that Aghoribaba was the royal guru right? But let me tell you why?

The King of Nepal saw SHIVA/SHAKTI in baba’s palms. Now what does this mean? This means that Aghoribaba was a COMPLETE BALANCE OF YIN/YANG. Actually such siddhas become gender-less.

Now Aghori baba had also warned that the king’s head will roll and his son will be responsible. This is due to an OLD CURSE on the Nepalese royalty by none other than baba GORAKHNATH.

GORAKHNATH is the PROTECTOR OF GORKHA, a place from where the king’s ancestors came. Prithvi Narayan Shah, the founder of the kingdom of Nepal who began to conquer different kingdoms and brought them under one rule. One day this king offered a saint some curd. The saint was AGHORESHWAR GORAKSHANATH. He sipped it and then puked it out. Then he offered it back to the king! :O

Of course the king did not drink it. He chucked it on the floor and therefore got cursed that his dynasty would be ERASED because of his pride after 10 generations!!!

Now, now, now…Baba Ramnath’s disciple was the NINTH GENERATION and he was slain by his own son who never ruled even though he was crowned king. So you see, the royal family could not avoid Gorakhnath’s curse.

Now Ramnath baba is himself Gorakhnath. See how he executed his lila by returning for the finale! That is how Tara works.

You do remember the crematorium story don’t you? Yes I was there, all alone in the night. In the smashan in Tarapith. My spiritual brother by my side. We began the rituals and the yagya.

I cannot go much into detail here as some of it is too personal..but I can tell you the cremation grounds frightened the FUCK OUT OF ME. I heard laughter, shouting, screams, whispers, wolves or maybe dogs howling and then the scarist sound. When the body burns, the log crackles and the fire hisses. I do not think I can describe that sound. It is the sound of death and the sound of life.

And in trance the night was over. Of course Gorakhnath was there, in the form of Ramnath baba and then finally I saw her. Her as NILASARASWATI. She was short and scary. Her belly was extended. In fact it was the BLUE on her skin that made me realise who she is. She stared right at me and I passed out as I looked at the THREE EYES.

The Avadhuta who took me there told me that I sat in padmasana the whole night till the first rays of the Sun illuminated the cremation ground. He dropped me back and we never spoke a single word. He did not ask me a thing and I had no words. Only the BAUL SONG played in the background…

The link below is a BAUL/FOLK SHAKTA SONG from the heart of Bengal depicted in critically acclaimed internation film Moner Manush..

Do you know that ONLY A WOMAN CAN INITIATE YOU IN TARA TANTRA?

In Tibetian tradition, Neela Saraswati is known as Yang Cheng Mo. Yangchengmo is the Goddess for performing arts, especially music. In her musical moment and demeanour, Neela Sarasvati is called Piwa Karpo. Her Chinese Buddhist name is Miao-yin-mu. Sarasvati’s mythology is about PURIFYING THE CONSCIOUSNESS. In this she shares her characteristics with White Tara and also with her Japanese equivalent, Benten or Benzeiten.

The AGHORI SECT is very Plutonic and it is believed that ALEISTER CROWLEY devoted much time in discovering their gupta sdhanas. He is even known to have spend time with Ramnath Baba.

I wish Ramnath baba would tell me about Crowley, but he does not. In fact, he comes and goes as he wishes and I can never stop him. And Tara…she disappears…and reappears…like a hologram! Wait this 3D world is just another simulation right??

I am Manifest Divinity, Unmanifest Divinity, and Transcendent Divinity. I am Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, as well as Saraswati, Lakshmi and Parvati. I am the Sun and I am the Stars, and I am also the Moon. I am all animals and birds, and I am the outcast as well, and the thief. I am the low person of dreadful deeds, and the great person of excellent deeds. I am Female, I am Male in the form of Shiva. ~~ Devi-Bhagavata Purana